


Closer to Oblivion

by phantisma



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Buffy and Post Angel --Giles has appetites he hasn't indulged, and the appearance of Angel, now fully human and still aching with a need for pennance, brings Giles a taste for power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer to Oblivion

The world was so much bigger than he remembered. All the years in Sunnydale had whittled away at his perception until the Hellmouth and Buffy had been everything. Even now, with Sunnydale gone and his new responsibilities, he had forgotten.

But today was a reminder. The Hellmouth had seen its share of very bad situations, demons and monsters in a concentration unlike anything else on Earth, but it didn’t hold a monopoly on evil…and there was a big world where evil thrived while the Slayer held back the Hellmouth. Today four new Slayers had discovered that.

He looked down at his hands. They should be bloody, for all that had happened in the last 12 hours, slick with the life of the girls he couldn’t save. Instead, his hands were clean, bare…long fingers ending in manicured fingernails that reflected back the vague glow of light from the window. They were the hands of a librarian, not a warrior. Had he been a warrior, he might have brought home his Slayers.

Giles sighed and tossed back the last of his whiskey. It burned and he welcomed the feeling. His glasses dangled, nearly forgotten from his other hand. Setting the glass aside he pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have been in bed hours before, but he was too keyed up for sleep. He chuckled at the thought. Buffy had rubbed off on him in more ways than he cared to admit.

With another sigh, he looked out over the city. Buffy was no longer his burden, his responsibility. Days like today he missed her. It was hard to believe they had survived everything that had come their way, that she was an adult now, that she didn’t need him like she used to.

Now it was the young Slayers that needed her. There were so many, and she had her hands full. Well, four less of them after today. He closed his eyes. He had lost so many friends, yet this last blow seemed so cruel. The youngest of them had been only 14. Fourteen year olds did not belong out on the streets of London after midnight hunting demons. 

He leaned forward onto the railing to ease the pain in his lower back. He felt so much older than his 52 years…older than he could ever have imagined he’d live to be. The blow hadn’t been a bad one, but it had aggravated an old injury. Maybe that was bothering him more than his age or the losses that came with his job…The muscles in his back continued to spasm and he made a face into the dark where no one could see it.

It was an old memory, a time better left forgotten. But how? How do you forget moments like that? Days like those? How do you forgive the vampire who killed people you loved and tortured you for days, just because a little girl playing witch gave him back the soul that he’d lost sleeping with your Slayer? How do you forget the pain when every blow reminds you?

To his credit, the boy had never asked forgiveness. They both knew he was a different man when the soul was there…and they both knew that was only partially true. Even human beings had that evil in them…even good men who fought the demons and the vampires and taught little girls to do the same.

Giles had never offered forgiveness either. He’d played nice for Buffy’s sake, at least until the whole Wolfram and Hart thing went down. Sure, he’d done good things, miraculous things, but Giles had no doubt that somewhere deep down inside Angel and Angelus were much the same, even if he’d stopped the Apocalypse, and nearly given his life to do so. 

The only thing keeping Giles from exploring how deep his own well of evil actually went was a reflection in the mirror behind him. Slowly, he straightened up and turned, slipping his glasses back onto his face and stepping through the balcony door. The hotel room was quite nice. A queen size bed dominated the left side of the room, while a sitting area, complete with coffee table and magazines sat on the right. The front of the wardrobe was directly opposite the balcony door, adorned with a full length mirror. Giles studied the reflection for a long moment.

The face that looked back at him looked older than he remembered. The hair was slightly grown out, the eyes dark and shadowed. Bruises gave evidence of a recent tussle, over the left cheek bone and along the right jaw line. Dark facial hair dusted his chin and neck. He was the living anti-thesis of the librarian, the warrior that Giles had never really been…at least not since he’d gotten so old. The deep purpling of his pale, pale skin gave evidence that he too had blood on his hands. Giles moved closer, pausing at the small table that held a carafe of whiskey and some glasses, to refill his drink. 

After he’d drained it a second time, Giles set the glass down. There was a time when he could have killed him without thinking about it. But not tonight. There had been enough dying for one day. That didn’t mean he couldn’t offer him something more satisfying. Giles owed him that much. His hand fell on Angel’s shoulder and in the mirror he watched Angel turn to look at him. He was nervous, Giles could tell.

“You came to me, I want you to remember that,” he said. Angel nodded tightly. Giles moved his hands to his belt. He wondered if Angel still had the appetite for it, for the pain of it. “Stand up, let me get a look at you.”

Angel complied, standing and assuming a stance with his hands behind his back, his eyes on the floor. Giles smoothed out the lapel of Angel’s shirt, his hand lingering to feel the beating of a heart that had lain dead and cold for centuries. It was a marvel. 

Giles moved around Angel, one hand skimming over his shoulder, down his back. The hard muscle beneath his skin, under his clothes made Giles think about his own body, significantly softer, older. It had been a long time since he had been that solid, though no one would ever call him out of shape. Keeping up with Buffy had done a lot to keep him fit.

It had also left some vacant places in his life, appetites he hadn’t indulged. His taste for darkness rivaled that of his Slayer, and he’d determined early on that only one of them dare indulge it, lest it swallow them both whole. Giles sighed and stepped back. 

What the boy was offering was tempting, he had to admit. He wanted more whiskey, but knew he needed to keep a clear head while he thought his through. 

It was easy to understand what Angel wanted…or at least to rationalize it. He was standing, unmoving, watching Giles pace. His face was blank, as if he didn’t remember how to express himself. He had said everything before they’d gotten here, to this hotel, with all of its secrets. There was so much guilt, so much need…and he had offered himself in a rush of it all, in the flush of finding a familiar face, of recognizing a debt he could never repay.

The problem was how much Giles found himself wanting it, the power of breaking the former vampire, of enjoying sexual pleasures he hadn’t tasted since his arrival in Sunnydale.

“Take off your shirt.” Giles said finally, his voice low and full of gravel. He turned away, preferring not to watch, it only added to the images in his head, and the discomfort between his legs.

This would require control. Patience. It had been so long, he couldn’t be sure of either. He took a deep breath and returned to Angel, his eyes sweeping over the pale skin of his chest and torso. There was bruising here too, deep black and purple along his ribs. The soft yellow of the hotel lighting accentuated the dozen or more scars that decorated his chest and stomach.

Giles turned him to face the mirror. “You are not who you once were. You are not Liam, you are not Angelus. You are not even Angel, not anymore.” He ran his hands up Angel’s back, over his shoulders. “Nor am I the man I once was.”

He looked into Angel’s eyes in the mirror. It was one step closer to oblivion. “If we do this, it can not be about vengeance…or redemption.”

Angel dropped his eyes and Giles sighed softly, letting go of some of the past with it. “I can’t give you redemption. You’ve already earned that, apparently.” His hand came around Angel’s body to cup the place where the evidence of his words lay and watched Angel’s eyes move to the place.

The tears though were unexpected and woke an ache inside Giles, as Angel’s eyes slid from Giles’ hand over his heart and up to his eyes. “It doesn’t feel like redemption.” Angel whispered. His eyes closed and Giles understood. He moved to stand in front of Angel, keeping his hands in contact with his skin as he did.

He didn’t respond to the words, or the tears. He lifted Angel’s left hand to examine it. It was markedly different from his own, calloused fingers and palm, torn cuticles around bitten fingernails at the end of long fingers that somehow lacked the elegance Giles generally associated with the length.

Giles took a deep breath and let the hand drop. Angel had marshaled himself when he finally looked up. His eyes were dark, deep chocolate pools of emotion. Giles let his hand cup the younger man’s face gently. Somehow he had always thought of him that way, as a younger man, though he was a good 200 years older than Giles would ever be.

Without prompting, Angel went to his knees, bowing his head. “I need this.” He said softly. “Whatever you want it to be. Let me…” his words trailed off as Giles’ hand turned his face up.

“I will require absolute obedience.” Angel nodded tightly. “This isn’t a game where you get to say some silly word to make it stop.” Again, the tight nod. Giles inhaled, already rationalizing to himself what he was about to do.

“Tomorrow my secretary will ring you with the name and number of a physician. You will see him and have your injuries looked to. You are to see him whenever you are ill or injured, promptly. You will also get your hair cut, your face properly shaved and your nails manicured. Your hands are abysmal.”

Giles stepped back and left Angel kneeling on the floor. “I’ll return in a few days. Until then, I shall send round some spending money. I want you to eat healthy. When you’ve healed those bruises, we’ll talk about what you want.”

“Thank you.”

Giles wanted to laugh, to tell him to save his gratitude for later in this relationship, after spankings and fucking had left him too sore to move, but he didn’t. Instead, he picked up his coat and folded it over his arm, arranging it to hide the growing bulge in his trousers. He let himself out of the room and didn’t look back, setting a brisk pace down the hall, and rounding the corner before stopping to breathe. It took a few minutes and some delicate adjusting of his boxers before he was ready to continue walking.

As he climbed into his car in the hotel parking garage, Giles looked at himself in the rearview mirror. His body thrummed with desire and it sparkled in his eyes. He remembered the look from his last indulgence, years before. In it he could see the person he was before Buffy. He had once played with darkness, danced close to the edge…and he was hungry for it now. 

He started the car and pulled out, heading back to the innocent side of his life, to the little girls, and their pre-pubescent innocence, to being the librarian with elegant hands and perfect fingernails…and he would never let them see how he played with the darkness that he trained them to hold at bay, how he craved it…closer to oblivion with every thought.


End file.
